


Shock Activities

by bravelikealady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, F/M, Masturbation, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6268558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravelikealady/pseuds/bravelikealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: After the first visit to Winterfell, only Ned goes to King’s Landing because winter comes so quickly, but he returns, unharmed but missing his family, three years later, a dance and feast prepared to celebrate the betrothal of Joffrey Baratheon to his daughter Sansa Stark, now a woman who has bled through their comparatively brief winter that stormed strong and hard while her father was away. Having drunk too much wine and feeling strange and uncertain about her intended, Sansa heads to the Godswood to take a dip in the springs there and escape the sun and is shocked to find that someone else is already there, having had the same idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shock Activities

It was early morning, the sun just beginning to rise, dipping the black of the night in a pale blue, kissing the sky with a warm, pink kiss. Sansa was overwhelmed by Joff’s attentions. He was beautiful, yes. She felt a flicker in her tummy when he spoke his sweet words, but she did not want his hands on her any longer. Maybe the wine had made her rude; How could she not love her sweet Prince? Whatever it was, she had to get away. Sansa got to the edge of the Godswood before she even knew where she was walking. She wanted their darkness, wanted their somber shade over her, blocking out some of the heat. It was still summer here in the wood, but there was no humidity. All the same, she slipped off her shoes and her dress, creeping towards the hot springs in only her small clothes, the fire in her belly from the wine creating heat that steamed out of her pores in a sweet, pure stickiness. The deep red leaves of the weirwood, so like her hair, squished beneath her feet, still holding on to the first summer rain. Sansa smiled at the damp feeling between her toes. Even in summer, it tended to snow. She loved the snow and, in fact, it suited her, leaving a blush on her cheek and on her heart, but it could be unforgiving.The rain was welcome. The smell of it was still abound; She felt clean, new, and free. She threw her dress over a branch and, making sure no one had followed her into the Godswood, she slid off her small clothes and knotted her long, auburn curls into a tight bun. She stepped from behind the tree toward one of the hot springs when she noticed him, The Hound. She let out a tiny gasp that seemed loud enough to wake her long dead ancestors in their crypt down below, but he did not seem to hear her. How could she have been so stupid? _I checked to see if I was followed, but never thought someone else might find comfort in these springs._ Naked, she slid behind the tree and reached for her dress, but lost what she was doing as he slid his tunic over his head.

She was still frightened of him, but he did not know she was here, what harm could it do? The right side of his face was gruesome, but she made herself stare at it and found that as long as her eyes avoided the bare bone that showed on his cheek, she could handle it. The other side of his face was not exactly handsome… his jaw was too cutting, too severe, his brow too strong, his nose unforgiving on the center of his face, but his mouth on the right was a pleasant pout, a soft spot in contrast to the rest of him, and she found it endearing. There was something in his harsh face that made her think of the stories of the First Men and it comforted her. _Of course he protects my prince. No man could be stronger._ The scars faded out gradually down his neck, but other scars crossed his chest, pink and thick and visible through the light cover of dark hair that covered his breast. Sansa recognized them as battle scars, nicks from swords and daggers, just as her father had… but these were not like her father’s. They looked just the same, but they were different somehow. They _had_ to be. Her father’s nicks made her frightened and she always hugged him harder after she saw them, dreading what that meant for him. On Sandor, they seemed fitting and stirred a sickness deep in her belly, not like the winter flips she caught from time to time, but a happy, tugging sick. She found herself loosening her grip on the tree and creeping up behind the next tree, getting a closer look at him. She left her dress and shoes behind, almost forgetting that she was nude. For a moment she thought he had heard her as he turned in her direction, but he just took off his sword and laid it on the ground and picked up a wineskin and began to drink, the red of the wine dripping the smallest bit down his chin as he slid off his boots. Sansa found herself licking her bottom lip slowly. She did not know why, but that embarrassed her and a hot blush ran through her.

Biting her bottom lip hard as he unlaced his breeches, Sansa knew she should not be here, but the tickle and pulse behind her lips down below kept her rooted to the spot. Sandor slid the leather off of his body, tossed the wineskin to the ground, and wiped off his mouth with the back of his left hand, then tossed his long hair back off of his broad shoulders, revealing his strong collar bones that protruded ever so slightly through his muscled body, enhancing his broadness. Sansa let her eyes travel down his body, confused and excited by the feeling that ran through her now. Deep in her heart, she almost hoped he would find her here. She found herself parting her legs and rocking lightly into the weirwood’s trunk, hips first, a few times, the bump against the bark sending little shocks through her. Her eyes widened as they traveled down his body, thickly and evenly muscled, his broadness tapering in at his waist, but even there he was broader than other men. Down one of his sides he seemed to be covered in more burns, though not so deep as the ones on his face. His skin twisted and gnarled there, but even that could not hide the definition of his abdomen and a bright, blue vein that dropped diagonally from his hip bone was a stark contrast to both the scorched skin and the pale, unmarked flesh of Sandor. Sansa had to grip her hands tight around the trunk, digging her nails into the bark to keep herself from falling down as her knees seemed to dance away from her. His navel was flat and a dark line of hair danced beneath it in a vertical line, leading to a thicker tuft of hair that bore his manhood. This was nothing Sansa had ever read in any story and she did not know what to make of it. All she knew was that her eyes could find no reason to pull themselves away from the thick mast of darker flesh that lay there, alive, but unaware, full enough to make Sansa’s lips pout in longing that she did not understand. She felt her lady’s grip flip against her own insides, over and over, each pulse of her muscles hitting a sweet spot at the tip top of her mound. Her eyes traced back up his body as he stepped down into the warm spring and disappeared. She felt open, stuck, and swore she could hear her own blood pumping to her nethers. It scared her. What was happening? She felt dizzy, she felt heavy, her lips and breasts swelling of their own will, throbbing almost as badly as she was below. She removed a hand from the tree and reached down, clasping herself, hoping she could undo whatever was happening, hoping she could will this newly discovered pocket closed, but it was no good. In fact, the feel of her fingers dancing on her lips made her want to dig deep inside of herself and she slide one finger and then two inside her slit, shocked at the thick, warm, wetness inside of herself. As she removed her fingers, dragging a hot line of liquid up to the spot that had tickled so with every twitch of her muscle, Sandor arose from the water, sliding his hair back, his member seeming longer than it had before, more swollen, and Sansa let out an involuntary moan. His grey eyes opened quickly and landed on her, half hidden behind the tree, but enough uncovered for a blushing, peach nipple, hard with excitement and nervousness and the hand guilty of massaging her mound with her own womanly liquid visible; Sansa was caught in the act. She gasped, her breasts heaving even harder than they were before, but she did not hide. She stepped out from behind the tree and wiped the two wet fingers off on her inner thigh, then stood up straight, finding confidence from the heat in her center. Sandor gave a low growl, tilted his head to the right, looked her up and down and up again, slowly, and barked a laugh.


End file.
